I Made a Resolution
by Anti-canon
Summary: His senior year of high school, Stiles gets into a wolf-related accident and loses his sight. From there on, everything is different, no matter how much he wants it all to stay the same. Oddly enough, the one person who seems to understand it all the most is Derek. [Written as a series of vignettes]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Sooo... I started writing this over on the Teen Wolf Kink Meme, but I didn't have the chance to finish it before they shut down the community. I've decided to transfer it on over and try to get it all worked out over here. ^^ I can't guarantee that the posting will be regular, but I do have plans for where this will go. So. Ya.**

**Erm, I've decided to go non-linear with this one, so paying attention to the number of days at the beginning of each chapter will help keep everything in perspective. All will be revealed eventually, so if you've got a burning question, odds are I'm writing it out, I just have a pretty specific order I want all these to be posted in. :)**

**Uh... Reviews are lovely! Please lemme know what you think.**

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It's been one year, three months, and sixteen days.

For the first time since the accident, when you wake up, the darkness doesn't surprise you. As you're dragged from the rolling mire of your dreams you open your eyes and there is nothing, but this time you don't rub at them, don't let out a few small tears because you'd momentarily forgotten.

Today you simply open them and think _Damn. It's a Monday._ You reach out for the bedside table and use it to pull your self up, counting the steps from there to reach the door and shuffle your way to the bathroom. It took several months to convince your dad that you could get in and out of the shower by yourself, even though you still occasionally misstep and bruise your knees.

The water feels so _good_ against your body and you imagine the tension flowing out of your skin and dribbling down the drain- like ink seeping out of your pores before the water cuts through and washes it away. You're not sure if it's all in your head or something truly borne out of your condition, but everything else seems so much more... potent now.

Foods taste better, odors are sharper, sounds more distinct. And your sense of touch- everything's so much more complex than you ever knew. You've taken an interest in cataloguing all the different sensations out there- both as a way to fill the void of everything you've had to leave behind and as a way to make yourself more independent, able to handle your surroundings.

Because after a few months of wallowing in self-pity you'd visited your mother's grave, seeking solace in the way that it took and took and took as you said everything you couldn't to the people around you because they might not understand. It felt like you were bailing yourself out, so close to drowning. You'd found a kind of strength here once, and losing your sight as compared to losing her seemed to be less daunting. If you'd survived that, then you could certainly survive this.

So you made a resolution not to feel sad for yourself anymore, not to be that person everyone in town pitied, not to be weak.

Now you get up, get dressed, and walk to school all on your own. You eat, learn, play, not like before, but you appreciate the small things. At first Scott had had to take you by the arm and lead you about the town, every journey dangerous, every outing a chance to get hurt again. Your blue jeep sitting useless and forgotten on the side of the house and sometimes you climb inside just to breathe the memories back in and realize just how much it felt like your home away from home. But you try not to dwell on it, and now you've memorized every crack in the sidewalk, every dip in the asphalt, every jut of the buildings on the very specific routes you've designed to get to all the places you have to go on a regular basis.

You learned braille at an alarming rate, not wanting to rely on strangers when you were out and determined not to let your thirst for knowledge fall to the wayside. On that account the materials accessible to you have been severely limited, but the rising popularity of audio books has helped and you've found a few programs with varying success that read text to you.

Life went on, and you're determined to keep moving with it.


	2. Chapter 2

It's been one year, three months, and twenty-one days.

He comes to visit every other day, vaulting through the window and bringing with him that subtle scent of the woods outside. You're sure that your sense of smell isn't nearly as heightened as Derek's, but when he sweeps in with the slightest hush you are alerted by the scent of freshly turned dirt and the faint hint of his leather jacket. You don't make a show of scenting the air like Scott used to, but you inhale deeply and don't question the sense of calm that it gives you.

You're not exactly sure how long he's been making these visits- unable to sense when regular people entered the room, let alone stealthy creeper-wolves for the longest time. You do know that it's been at least five months and twenty six days since you first caught him sneaking in. And though you can recognize him now, and he knows that you know he's there, the two of you have an unspoken agreement to keep up the pretense.

You don't know why he does it- Derek doesn't exactly have all the free time in the world these days. The last you heard his pack was still a bunch of unruly pups, getting themselves into trouble at every turn. Still he takes the time out to see you a few times a week. It sparks a definite flare of curiosity within you, and you think that's partly why you continue to play this game- hoping to find a motive behind his visits.

All he ever does is walk around the room- hands trailing over things, steps silent. You know because his fingers occasionally skirt over the back of your chair, so close to breaking these bizarre rules, but unwilling to take that extra step. You go on doing whatever it was that was occupying your time before he stepped in and try to ignore that ever-present tingle that settles along your spine. You can't say for sure that he's looking at you the whole time that he's here, hell he could just be here because he's searching for something that is quite distinctly not you- hence the lack of acknowledging your existence- but you swear that you can _feel_ his stare. So you convince yourself that he's there for you.

It's become somehow comforting to know he's going to keep coming, as regular an event as the sunrise and set. To know that someone's dedicated to knowing you're okay, even if it is out of a misplaced sense of guilt and pity, makes it easier.


	3. Chapter 3

It's been one year, four months, and five days.

No one quite knows how to act around you these days. Whether they knew you before or just met you now- there's a wall between you that can't be surmounted. The ones before remember how you used to be- can't coalesce the image of you then with the one of you now.

New people aren't sure how you feel about the disability, whether it's okay to joke about it or if you're bitter. Half the time the crowd just parts like the red sea around you, as though there's a force field keeping everyone at a distance of five feet. Instead of choosing to be sad about it, you pretend you're a jedi, or maybe Moses and wave your hands around, smiling wryly when people follow your orchestrations to the letter.

For now you've chosen the relative safety of isolation to spend most of your time, more for them than for yourself. Being around everyone still kind of rattles folks and you're not too interested in shaking things up. It's a small town, and the people who live here have that small town mentality. So you play it safe and bide the time until you're no longer this place's Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Sometimes it feels as though you're going to go mad, sitting in the dark with nothing but your thoughts. But it's led to a lot of self reflection and you believe that you've come out of it with a better sense of the kind of person that you are. You know the quiet strength that sits quietly inside, the potential for wisdom if you'd only get the chance to use it.

You've decided that you could mean something to the pack again. Maybe not what you used to, but Derek could use the help- even if he won't ask for it. You're certain that they'll argue you can't be part of this life anymore- it was dangerous before and even worse off now. But you also think you could tap into their indecision around you, that inability everyone seems to have to refuse you things now. You don't really like the idea of manipulating them, but you figure that if it's to help them overall, the ends justify the means.


	4. Chapter 4

It's been one year, three months and twenty two days.

You never really looked good in sunglasses. You'd tried style after style, color after color, and at some point around sixteen you'd finally given in to the fact that you just weren't made for them. So when you lost your sight one thing you were absolutely adamant about was that you wouldn't be wearing those ridiculously blatant shades so that everyone else would feel more comfortable around you. You were the one that was blind for hell's sake, why should you be trying to please other people?

Your father had tried to talk you out of your decision, asking why it would even matter now that, well, now that it shouldn't matter. You don't even know why you chose to make a big deal out of it yourself, but something inside you had decided that this was the battle you were going to stand your ground on. You'd given up so much, this you were keeping.

You'd never even really paid much attention to the color of your eyes before, it wasn't really high on your list of priorities. But now you hear the whispers everywhere-_What a shame. He used to have the most lovely eyes. Why doesn't he cover them up?_ The once amber-gold has been covered my a milky film that turns them a sort-of infected tan and on the right eye, when the light hits it right, you can see the ragged gouge that runs diagonally through the center.

You never got to see it yourself, clearly, but you got Derek to tell you. You'd tried to get your father first, and when he started to break down you'd gone to Scott instead. He'd hedged, trying to make you feel better, not wanting to give you the truth. After that you'd tried nearly everyone until you finally made your way down to him. He'd been hesitant about it at first, but you knew he'd be honest, wouldn't be as cruel as some like Jackson might have been, but wouldn't have tried to coddle you like Scott.

And you won't lie, it hurt to hear it, but it's what you wanted and so even though you could feel tears pricking your eyes, you thanked Derek for being truthful with you. He'd put a firm hand on your shoulder, only for a handful of seconds before he left. He didn't say anything, didn't offer pity or tell you brighter things on the horizon, and somehow that was endearing.

Afterwards you would spend far too much time wondering when it was that you had decided Derek was someone you could confide in, someone you wanted to share your hardships with, but right then you were just thankful he had decided you were worth his time.


	5. Chapter 5

It's been six months and eight days.

You'd sworn that you were ready for this. You had been prepping for weeks, obsessively memorizing and counting and laying out the path inside your head. You know, in hindsight, that it was a stupid thing to do, coming all the way out here, the middle of nowhere, by yourself, but you'd just been so fed up with everyone fawning over you, walking on eggshells, treating you like fractured glass. You were so eager to show them that you were still the same person, that you were still smart and strong and skilled.

Now—now you're lost and alone and not ashamed to admit that you're a little afraid. Thing is, you really are the same person and so you're still unwilling to ask for help, to admit that you were stupid and wrong and careless and not what you thought. You needed a win today, needed to know that you weren't going to be someone else's burden forever. Sitting in the dirt, counting the minutes until sunset, you feel well and truly useless. Again.

You try not to let yourself believe it though, try not to let in consume you like it once did. It's just- some days it's so hard. You were only trying to get to the damned convenience store. It so stupid, but you were out of pudding and Dad's working the late shift, won't be home until well past morning, so you'd thought it would be the perfect opportunity. He wouldn't even know you'd left until you got back home, victorious, and finally he'd stop worrying, stop watching you while you were pretending to sleep, hiccupping back semi-hysterical tears.

You don't know how many more nights of that you can take, don't know how long you can continue to stick around when all you do is foster guilt and pain and sadness. Maybe, you think, just maybe it's a good thing that you got turned around, doubled back, changed your mind and direction so many times that you ended up clear out here. Maybe they won't find you before night falls and the frost sets in and for the first time since the accident you fall into a restful sleep. Maybe then, once your put to rest, everyone can finally move on and get past it.

It's a dangerous road to go down, thinking like this, and though it makes your heart clench tightly, the idea of it actually makes you smile, hot tears catching in the corners of your mouth. For Scott to finally get past all the struggle and just be dopey and happy again. For your dad to finally move past tragedy, to finally ask Ms. McCall out on a proper date, to finally be past the haunting of your withering family, to finally get back to the man he used to be. For the whole town to forget the festering wound your mother became and you fed.

You'd be happy to give what you have, what you are, to make it all okay, to make them okay. You're just starting to resign yourself to it, to grow content with the belief that it will all work out, when you feel a palm cup your face, a calloused thumb wipe away the tracks on your cheek that have started to itch. You try to pull away- don't want to be seen, don't want to be found, don't want to be saved- but the grip is firm as the other hand comes up to hold your shoulder. "You're better than this."

You recognize that voice, could pick out that barely withheld rage any day. "Don't- just don't." You try and push him away, your hands slapping ineffectually and his face, his chest, his arms. He won't let you wriggle away from him, won't even let you turn your head. You can _feel _him staring at you, so close you swear his breath is ghosting across your lips. You're not sure why he's here, why he keeps showing up at your worst moments, always angry, always pushing, always demanding more. It makes you hate him, makes you want to bite and thrash and snarl.

"You're not a coward. You're not weak. You're not stupid. You're better than this." He emphasizes each sentence with a squeeze around the back of your neck, a small shake.

"You don't know that!" You can feel your convictions crumbling, can feel that slipping into hysteria as your careful affirmations start to fall apart all over again. "Let me go, let me go, let me go…." You get quieter every time you say it, turning from a demand, to a request, to a plea. You can feel yourself shaking, would probably be crying if you still could.

"I _do _know that. _You _know that- deep down." There is no hesitation in his words, no room to argue, and you're stunned into stillness. He really does believe that. "Now you have to show it to everyone else, have to make them remember. It's not fair and it's not right, but you have to be _better. _You have to be smarter and stronger and faster. You have to prove to them that you don't need their pity, that you're so much more than what happens _to _you. You shouldn't have to, they don't have the right to ask that of you, but that's just how the world works." His voice starts to break and he shakes you again, presses your foreheads together. "Be better than this."

You hate him for being right. You hate him for being the only one to not give you a break, to not let you go. You hate him for making him face your fears, your injury, the world. You hate him for not giving up. You hate him for not forgetting, for not forgiving, for not letting you just be. You hate that he's nice, that he's truthful, that he's decent.

You hate that you don't really hate him at all.


	6. Chapter 6

It's been one year, eleven months, and thirty days.

You're not thinking about it, really you're not. It's not the anniversary of her death, or your birthday, or Christmas. It's not this day that's etched into your mind, that you're always aware of. Objectively, you _know. _You keep track of the days, you see that it's approaching, but it just means that you're going to have to change the count again, to remember that it's two years now and not one.

You used to have nightmares about the accident, it used to follow you everywhere, fragments of it triggering in every sound, every touch, every sensation. These days you just try your hardest to keep looking forward, to look at every goal you have yet to accomplish, everything you have left to prove. It keeps you moving forward, keeps you from rotting at the core.

Everyone else- they're the ones that remember, that can't help but notice. They're quiet the whole day, try to be nicer, try not to bring it up in any way, shape, or form, and thereby only make it more obvious. They hover and jitter and loom like they haven't in a long time and it starts to fray at your nerves, makes you snappish and irritated. They think it's because of the day, and you let them, but eventually you have to get out.

You like to sit out on the roof, though you can't appreciate the view, you can feel the wind in your hair, can taste and smell the ozone, can hear the busy streets below, and you can imagine that the city is sprawled, great and endless, beneath you. You can stand on the edge and raise your arms above your head and feel like a King. You've learned, by now, to take pleasure in these small things, in all the new ways to experience what you had before, and today you are making sure to take it all in with gusto.

Your toes grip the edge tightly and you allow yourself to lean, rock, totter. You still feel a thrill up your spine, the fear of falling not having gone without the ability to gauge and anticipate. You allow yourself a small smile, because though you didn't hear him approaching over the breeze, you can feel him just behind you, unable to keep himself from a certain level of worry.

You jam your hands into your pockets and push up onto your tiptoes- waiting, waiting, waiting… When you're just about to tip, when you just start to feel the barest threads of doubt, one of his arms comes over your shoulder, the other around your ribs, and you are pulled tightly to his chest, a low growl sounding in your ear. "You know, one of these days I won't actually be there. What're you gonna do then?"

You can only just pick out the teasing lightness in his tone, but you know there would be copious amounts of anger if it was really an issue. You're not quite sure when it got so easy to pick apart his moods and intentions, but now that you can, you love to use it to full advantage. "Derek, you're practically a super hero, you'll never not be there. I can feel it in mah bones!"

He smothers a smile into your throat, poorly masking it as scent marking, but you choose not to call him out on it. The both of you stay there for a while, skin to skin, easy for just a moment, but you know that in this world, it never does last. "You shouldn't rely on me so much. You're smart and strong and… amazing. You don't—need me anymore."

You turn in his arms, pulling his face into your palms and pressing feather-light kisses to his eyelids and the corner of his mouth, before throwing your elbow right into his ribs. "You can be really dense, you know that? Most times I find it endearing. Now? Not so much." You run your hands through his hair, but put on what you hope to be an aggravated frown. "Stop trying to make things worse. We're good. For now, we're good." You pull him in and kiss him, slow, languorous, deep. You don't hold back, won't step away until his hands come to grip your waist, until he kisses you back, until he whispers simple apologies into your skin, until he admits that right now, everything is pretty damn good.


	7. Chapter 7

It's been two years, seven months, and eleven days.

You hadn't cried, not truly, for almost a year now.

You had promised yourself, the very first time that he told you no, that he slammed the door in your face and refused to answer your desperate calls, that you wouldn't. You were going to continue to do just what he'd said. For just the briefest of seconds you'd let yourself feel despair, but then it turned into anger and a sort of righteous fury that set you to work.

Faster, smarter, stronger, better.

You weren't going to cry anymore. You weren't going to feel sorry for yourself. You weren't going to blame the world or other people. If you couldn't do something then it was just a matter of more practice, more determination, more guts. And it had worked. You'd gotten braver and more capable. He'd finally taken you in and so it was set that if you only put your mind to something you could do it.

That's how this happened. That's how you've come to be sitting out on the deck, choking back violent coughs, sniffling, and tasting salt across your tongue. He's yelling at you, bellowing like you've never heard, and you've heard him close to death. Even if you could see, you're certain you wouldn't be looking, certain that his eyes are red and his ears are long and his teeth are sharp.

You can't really process what he's saying though, smelling the acrid smoke- stuck like grease on every surface- and feeling guilt swell up inside you so intense that you can't breathe. You'd just been trying to cook him bacon. He'd been working so hard lately, been so tired and so sweet and you'd thought, _how hard could it be?_ You planned it all out inside your head- you could feel your way around the apartment easily, knew where the pans and stove and fridge would be. All you had to do was count off in your head the minutes until you flipped the pieces, and then again to pull them out.

You were so certain that he'd wake up to the smell- grouchy at first because he's never been a morning person, but then intrigued and finally pleased when he came in to see you there. You'd imagined him coming up behind you, boxing you in with his arms, murmuring sweet nothings into the crook of your neck and being so, so _proud. _

You wanted him to be proud of you.

But you'd forgotten about the new bookcase, and just like the first time, you panicked, second guessed yourself, got turned around. Through all the practice, it just took one unfamiliar object, one anomaly in a space you'd been certain that you knew like the back of your hand- one crack in the veneer, and you reverted back.

You heard the snap and fizzle when it started, taking just second for the heat to start and radiate out. Then you made another bad decision, a worse decision, and froze. You wanted to take care of it yourself, you couldn't go back to the way you were, but you were too afraid to grab ahold of logic, to take a second and just breathe.

Once you started to cough and sputter, the real danger of it hit you and you screamed for him, falling to your knees and doubling over, clutching your head and just wishing for it all to go away. You pulled away, into yourself, away from your failure, back from the insecurity that you would always be useless.

For the first time, the very first time, you _hate _yourself.

You hate yourself because you know what that must have been like for him, to wake up to the smell of smoke, the sound of someone screaming, to see the flames and feel that old panic. You're absolutely sick with it. You can feel his fingers digging into your shoulders, can feel him shake you as he yells until his voice is hoarse.

An hour later, you're still in shock, but now you're back at your dad's house with a duffel of all your things that had been in the loft beside you and a lump in your throat.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I wish that I could say this was worth the wait, or at the very least that I would promise to update regularly from here on out, but we all know that that would be a lie, and so far that is the one thing I absolutely won't say to you guys.**

**In any case! Another chapter. Weeeee!**

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It's been ten months—right down to the day.

You like to think that you're more or less okay by now. You have your routes, have your routine, have your foothold in this new life, and yet you're still forced to be here every Friday afternoon. It had been your father's idea, and though you'd hated it from the very first moment he suggested group therapy, at the moment you had all been about placating everyone else. You were still topped up with guilt—the feeling if being fragile, vulnerable, foolish.

No one was comfortable yet, really, with having you around, and to be honest, you were glad for it. You couldn't take the weighted pauses, the inability to joke and be happy and be themselves. Everyone turned to ghosts around you—shadows of what they were in reality—a reality that you were ni longer a part of. So, sure, you'd spend a few hours a week being around "people like you, people who will understand."

Thing is, they don't. Not how you want anyway. It's not like there's an overly large blind population and so the group you attend in more of a miscellaneous maladies mob. The triple 'M' as you've so generously termed it. No one else thought it half as clever, but it's more for your benefit anyway. It's an odd assortment of people, all ages and afflictions, with a high burnout rate, both in patients and in counselors.

The cast is always changing, but the characters stay the same. For leaders you've had the Try-Hards: do-gooders who believe with the right attitude and enough gumption, you can overcome anything! They go out the quickest, their optimistic world view under constant barrage, assailed with every story and every failed attempt at getting back out into the world. They don't ever quite understand that you don't want to be the way that you were. Things _changed. _You have to change to accommodate. It's the only way to survive it.

Then there's the Professional: always gravely serious, overly analytical, and usually in the possession of, or the acquisition of a degree. They are clinical—ticking off items on a list and coming at the issues like they're physical problems, like the simply have to excise the blackness from your life and cauterize the wound. They can last forever, stubborn and utterly convinced that they are right, but when they inevitably fail, only after having tried every possible trick in the book, they find fault in you and leave.

Your most favorite though is the Lifer: Generally a recovering something or other themselves, they are simply here because they haven't found a way out. Stuck in this mire, they have carved a life for themselves out of this never-ending turnstile of hospitals, doctors, pills, groups, diagnoses, and treatments. They are content, if not happy, and will let you take the session any way you want, including not at all. They are there to be a warm body and not much else.

It was entertaining for the first while and occasionally you would get swept up in it all, convinced that you could fix it all, but by now, you're ready to be rid of it all. You're done, they're done, _it's _done. You're not going back, can't. You can't live in the what-ifs forever. You're ready to deal with it now, to be whatever the world is going to make of you. You can't be coddled anymore, it's either time to sink or swim.

So when your dad drops you off this morning, you don't head inside to wait like usual, picking at a cheap pastry and cheaper coffee. You know he's here, know he's even attended a meeting before, and you think he knows too. You don't know why, but for right now, that's not so important. You're more interested in the what—what he's going to do, what kind of boundaries he's set, what responsibilities he's assumed.

You don't waste any time, stepping off the curb and into the street, having less a blind faith and more an all-consuming carelessness. He's at your side in seconds, horns blasting off to your right as he shoulders you back to the cement. You don't say anything, just grab hold of his forearm and start to walk. If he's surprised or perturbed, you don't know, but he keeps up with you, takes care of what you cannot, and doesn't say a word.

You know that whatever this is, this guardianship that he's taken on, is stemmed from his own sense of guilt, but you don't care. There's a strange sort of closeness to it, a survivor's frame of mind that instantly brings you closer. Ever since the accident, the world has seemed giant and teeming with terrible things, but when you're with him, it's infinitely small.


End file.
